The city of brotherly love finally opened its arms and embraced me, a few days ago. After harboring me—a New York refugee—on ambivalent terms for almost five years, Philadelphia held my head in her hands and punched it a few times.

I was mugged by three kids on July 3rd, 2007, around 9pm, on Farragut St, just south of the 46th/Market Street stop. I think it may have been on Farragut and Ludlow, but I am not sure. The 46th Street subway stop on the Market-Frankford line was closed that evening, and I decided to walk down to the 40th Street stop. I turned into a side street—I think it was Ludlow—with the new Nine Inch Nails blasting on the headphones. Out of nowhere, somebody struck me on the left side of my face. My glasses were knocked off.

I was disoriented, and to ensure that I stayed that way, a few more punches were landed. I managed to stay on my feet, and started to talk to the two boys—they can’t have been more than 16.
—Guys, guys, relax, take it easy.

Another punch. They were directed mainly at the face. A third kid joined the other two entrepreneurs, and was bobbing and angling, looking for ingress. What do you want?, I asked stupidly.
—Gimme everything you got.

The third kid found an opening, and split my lip. He was about 14.
—Relax, relax. I have $40.

I don’t know why I kept telling them to relax. I must not have taken them very seriously. Or I thought I might talk my way out of the situation.

I reached into my pocket. They took a step back. I pulled out a $20 bill, and handed it to the chief entrepreneur. As soon as he took the bill, I broke through their ranks (the three of them ranged about me, and I had my back to the bushes from whence the first fellow had surprised me). I ran. I had sneakers on, having just played tennis. I also had my freak on. I ran towards the light, which, contrary to what the books and movies will have you believe, was sodium yellow (and on Farragut). The boys followed me for about two paces, then stopped. I like to think it was my fleetness of foot that discouraged them, but it was probably the light. Besides, they got $20 for their trouble. As I was running, a car turned onto the boys’ street, and I waved and yelled Turn. Around. The car backed away.

After ten to fifteen minutes of stumbling around, I found myself at the 40th/Market subway stop, and went into a fast food store. By some strange coincidence, the two women who had been in the car that I waved away were there, and recognized me (I did not recognize them). They asked me what happened, and I told them. The store owner gave me free lemonade. I got into the subway, iced my face, and went home, where I got more ice, then took some photographs of my face.

I spent the 4th of July, 2007, in bed for the most part, pondering violence and masculinity and whether or not I should go to the police. I still have not decided on the police, but I heard today that another friend ‘nearly’ got mugged near Baltimore Avenue. I will have to talk to that friend, and eventually decide on whether or not to go to the police. (Apparently he did go to the police, and they drove him around asking if he recognized anyone).

Best case scenario, the police patrols around 46th and Market increase in visibility (if they exist at all), and muggers wise up. Worst case scenario, the police catch the kids, and throw them into juvie, and they become statistics, and another family or two (or three) perpetuates the vicious cycle of urban violence. Most likely scenario: nothing happens. I suppose the onus is on me to go to the police. Instead, I write blog pieces and post them into the cybervacuum.

I am healing nicely, two days after the mugging. And I have nice new glasses.